Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09X9D3S4KTZVFJ64Z1K9G8

Molly pressed her forehead to the greasy café window and watched the community hall across the street, where paper bunting trembled in the breeze like it had been stitched by a nervous seagull. Inside, a banner announced HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TILLY! in letters so large and cheerful they seemed suspicious. Children were arriving in bright coats, carrying balloons and that special brand of chaos only children could carry without spilling it. “There,” Molly said, nodding toward the hall. “Forty-two presents by my count.” Bill peered over his tea, which had gone cold and acquired the look of a pond in winter. “Forty-two? You counted them through the window?” “I counted the tags on the table. And the pile under the balloon arch. And the enormous one with a dinosaur on it that I’m fairly sure is not a child.” Bill frowned. “That was a joke?” “It was an observation.” He reached into his coat and produced a folded map of the hall, which he spread on the table with the solemnity of a surgeon preparing an operation. “Right. Front entrance, too obvious. Back door, alarmed. Side door, guarded by a woman in a purple cardigan who seems to be able to smell wrongdoing.” “She can smell wrongdoing because you did that thing with the jam last year.” “I was hungry.” “You ate the raffle tickets, Bill.” “They were deliciously numbered.” Molly looked back through the window. A clown was arriving, if the shoes were any indication. “We need a clean entrance, a distraction, and a bag big enough to make Santa weep.” Bill took a sip of tea and winced. “I’ve got the bag.” “That’s a sack.” “It’s a vintage sack.” “It says Property of Eastbrook Bowling Club.” “Exactly. Authentic.” A little boy outside slapped the hall door with both hands and shouted, “I want cake now!” His mother hauled him back with the expression of a woman who had already lost an argument to sugar and was preparing to lose the rest of her day. Molly smiled. “Distraction solves itself. Children are naturally combustible.” “We are not relying on spontaneous combustion,” Bill said. “We need a proper diversion. Something loud, but festive.” “We could fake a magician.” “No.” “Hire a marching band?” “Too conspicuous.” “Release fifty pigeons?” Bill lowered his tea. “Where would we get fifty pigeons?” Molly shrugged. “You know a lot of odd people.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Here’s my idea. You go in as the clown’s assistant, I come through the kitchen with the cake trolley, and when everyone turns to sing, we swap the presents into the sack and walk out looking emotionally exhausted.” Molly stared at him. “You want to steal presents from a room full of children by pretending to be part of the entertainment?” “Yes.” “That is terrible.” “It’s elegant.” “It’s morally offensive.” “It’s efficient.” She considered the hall again, where the clown had now lost a balloon to the wind and was staring after it with the hollow look of a man whose career had just escaped into the sky. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not wearing greasepaint.” “You wore greasepaint for the museum job.” “That was for camouflage.” “In a fountain?” “A highly reflective fountain.” Bill folded the map. “We go in at three. By three-thirty, those presents are ours.” “And then?” He gave her a grin full of gaps and ambition. “Then, Molly, we vanish into the afternoon with enough toys to open a very upsetting shop.” She set down her spoon, squared her shoulders, and took one last look at the hall. “All right, Bill,” she said. “Let’s rob a birthday.”